Solutions
by T. Mad Hatter
Summary: Companion to Mistakes. Wufei reflects on a mistake made, a friend lost, and a solution not created until it was too late.


Life has stopped as I stand outside of the mocking, mahogany door, knocking quietly and whispering Trowa's name. 

"Trowa? Are you there? What's wrong?" I knock harder. No response. I knock again. Same lack of a response, but my worry has intensified. It usually doesn't take him this long to answer the door. He's prompt with that sort of thing—doesn't like to keep people waiting.

My hand makes contact with the cold, bronze doorknob and shivers are sent down my spine.  These rare moments of instantaneous, as intoxicating fear always leave me breathless, freezing my blood and clearing my mind.  These "attacks" are rare, and only occur when my instincts detect something amiss.  The very thought makes my anxiety double; could something be wrong with Trowa?  No, I assure myself.  He's alive and well, just as he promised.  Barton wouldn't kill himself…would he?  I always knew he had demons inside that took control of his mask, but would he let them win?  No, he wouldn't.  He couldn't…could he?

I turn the handle slowly, my hand shaking unnoticeably as my mind races for answers to subtle questions.  Calm yourself, Wufei.  Behind this oaken door is a man quiet and apathetic, but alive.  He would never end his life, not now when I need him the most.  That bastard is the only that sees through my thin, obvious mask.  What would I do if he's gone?  

I calm my erratic senses and take in a searing breath, letting the oxygen cut away at my insides and strip away the lies and pain.  Memories cut deep, but lies break the bone.  I reflect quietly on everything I've been through, stalling time so I won't have to face the hidden truth behind that taunting door.  Trowa likes things silent and indifferent and veiled.  That's his world and that's his personality.  I've never found out why, but I imagine it's because the mocking voices in his head, telling him to do things he'll never do.  

There are such extremes in our group: Duo's the loud, outspoken one; Heero is the determined leader; Quatre is the respectable, compassionate one; Trowa is the quiet balancer; and I'm the honorable warrior.  And yet, I find myself more alone with my friends than I've ever been.  We play mind games sometimes, too protective of our own pasts and futures to let anyone in.  Even Quatre has an agenda that keeps him from playing the "full game".  It's a sad way to live, but I know of no other way.  And that's why I find myself so comfortable with Trowa.  He has a mask up, yes, but he also is perceptive and sees right through you.  I need someone to see through my façade.  Then they can truly worry about me and truly understand my deeper thoughts.  Many of them are of my past, but quite a few of them consist of solving the great mystery that is my friend, Pilot 03. 

Trowa Barton is, if anything, a hawk.  I do not know how I came to this decision nor when; all I know is that it's a true statement.  Hawks are beautiful, majestic creatures with grace and mystery that far surpass that of any other bird that roams the sky.  When you see a hawk, if you do not know of them beforehand, you never expect one to strike.  Its mystery and icy glare draw you in, catching its prey off-guard so it can attack swiftly.  And once it does, the predator leaves a mark—a wound—that will never heal.  And yet, you don't want it to.  You want the scar to remain so you have a reminder of that one incident, that one happening that changed your outlook on life.  That is a hawk and that is my friend, Trowa Barton.  

I open the door slowly, letting my thoughts fall to halt as I try to concentrate on the present time.  The door creaks loudly, as if sounding a bell for the dead.  It awakens the resting demons in my head as I step into the room, looking around.  There's a seducing bottle of sleeping pills upon the floor, as if it had fallen out of a hand.  I take another step and peer around the bed.  My breath catches in my throat as I gasp, my raven eyes falling upon the angry, confusing scene before me.  There are distant footsteps of my friends, but all I can think about is what I see.  The whole world is spinning out of control and all I can do is stand there, staring.

My friend, Trowa Barton, is dead. 

Those very words cut into me like a knife, slicing up my skin and shredding away every piece of my sanity. I never thought that he could do this to himself, but he did. We were friends; he was the only one that ever understood me. He was the only one that ever saw through the mask, and now he's gone. How is this fair, Trowa? You fucking left me to die here, without notice or heed. Are you guiltless? I can't believe you. You told me suicide was full of bullshit. Why do this to me? Why the fuck would you do this to me?

We all knew what we were signing up for when we made that contract with death. He should've been prepared for the cold of war, for the anger it would bring upon. Trowa wasn't weak, so why end it like this? My comrade was one of the strongest people I knew. Trowa was…more than just a soldier--he was just one of those people. Nothing ever penetrated the surface; he would just go on about a job despite whatever shit was going on around him. Silenced power is what he had. Why did it fail him this time? Why couldn't he talk to me?

We were friends, comrades, brothers; once close, now broken and forgotten. Everything about Trowa was a mystery. He was a reserved, calm, cold bastard who didn't like opening up to others except when it was absolutely necessary. He kept his emotions to himself, always remaining apathetic and reasonable. Everything about that boy was calculated; he said what he needed to and he did what was called for. I used to wonder how he could live without passion. Now I know the truth: he wasn't alive.

Too many questions are swirling about my head. Anger pierces my veins as I stare coldly on into oblivion. He's gone. It's over and you can't stand by and wonder why he did it. He just did. Trowa felt that there was no way out, so he took his life. It isn't fair or nice, but that's the way it is. Then why the hell can't I accept it? Why the hell am I crying for the loss of that asshole? I should be angry, not depressed beyond all reason. I didn't care about him. I didn't. I couldn't have.

But…I did. He knew my inner most secrets and accepted them. He saw through my mask, the one of rage and blind passion. He saw through my cold front, and found the truth. I'm not what everyone thinks. I'm not angry or passionate or even brave. I'm scared and cold and lonely, but I would never admit that. How could I? My friends could never handle the truth. I'm protecting them. I have to. They wouldn't be able to handle it. Trowa handled it. And now he's gone. If I ever see him again, I'll kill that motherfucker. 

Quatre is crying now, his sobs echoing in the oblivion of what has now become my life.  Duo just stands there, comforting the weakened pilot as best he can without breaking down himself.  Heero looks betrayed, more than anything.  I feel his anger and pain, as he does mine.  Out of all of us, Trowa almost seemed like the least likely to come to this, so the surprise is overwhelming.  I am prepared for everything.  I can handle anything.  So tell me, why wasn't I prepared for this?  Why can't I handle this loss, just like I did before with everyone else?

Trowa looks so peaceful, and yet so tormented.  It's as if part of him had wanted this desperately, but the other didn't.  I suppose a war was waged, and you can guess what side won.  It's the side that has destroyed my world.  Well, Trowa, no need to see through my mask now.  It's been stolen from me, leaving myself naked and defenseless against the cold of life.  You've broken down the barriers of Wu Fei Chang, my friend.  Is this what you wanted?  Is this the happy reward for petty suicide?

There's a side of me that's just angry.  I feel bloody rage weave a spider web of death around my head, and it's so enthralling I'm so close to taking advantage of it.  But, then, there's the opposite part that merely mourns, feeling pity and anguish, but nothing more.  The mask of Wu Fei would call that weak and pathetic.  The real Wu Fei merely shrugs, finding it neither weak nor righteous.  Emotions are no longer real, not when they've destroyed the only person I cared about.

It doesn't feel right to bury Trowa in the ground, as if locking his memory up in a box and throwing away the key.  What would we put on the grave stone?  "Pilot that killed many, but will be missed by the few that he didn't destroy" is out of the question because those that he didn't destroy physically are mentally dead now, because of his death.  I just miss him so much; I find it hard not to break down and cry until there's nothing left in me.  I would, normally, but Trowa would then be there to sit beside me, comforting my broken state.  No, now, I would be crying _about_ Trowa, not _with _Trowa.  It's ironic because at the time I need him the most, he's dead.  Barton never did have good timing.  Or maybe this was actually his best timing yet. 

It's been a few days and I'm now standing before his gravestone, silent tears trickling down my wind-reddened cheeks, burning like acid.  No one else is here, having gone home hours ago.  The funeral was beautiful, but then again, my friend was beautiful so it should reflect that.  I still remember his green eyes and chestnut hair that covered those deep pools of shining pain.  I still remember his sly, cheeky laugh and warm, opening smile.  I remember everything about him and I just hope I never forget.  

To me, Trowa will always be my hawk.  He'll be the one I search for when I scan the sky and he'll be the one I cry out for when life is too damn complicated.  We were best friends and that won't be broken with death.  I'll carry on, but for him more so than myself.  He'd want me to, I suppose.  Then again, upon my sudden realization, I'll never find out what he truly wanted to begin with.

The wind is whistling softly, whispering things only my dead friend can hear and understand.  I strain my ears to comprehend what conversation they might be having, but it is impossible.  I smile slightly, for the first time and days, and kneel down before the stony grave.  It is mystifying, with the emblem of a falcon engraved into the rugged rock, as I had asked for its placement there.  Trowa would want that, I think.  And if he wouldn't, well he's dead so it doesn't really matter. 

Duo calls me and I sigh, not wanting to leave the serenity that lies hidden at his burial place.  I'm not angry anymore or vengeful; just silently sad, as Trowa once was in life.  I am simplistic now, noticing things I never noticed before and saying things people never expected of me.  When I need comfort in the midst of terror or distress, I read his journal and find comfort there.  He was quite sarcastic and it makes me laugh, even when I not supposed to.  I've learned one thing from that: never bring your friend's diary to church.

I stand slowly and sigh, looking over the stone marker once again.  Trowa was wrong in killing himself, but I was wrong in not paying enough attention.  We all make mistakes, I suppose.  I turn on my heel and begin to walk away, but stop for one last glimpse so it'll last me the rest of the night.

_Triton Bloom_

_Trowa__ Barton_

_Talented Pilot_

_Beloved Friend and Brother_

_~He was the solution to every mistake,_

_And our hawk in the sky.~_


End file.
